


A Month of Sundays

by shadowen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Cute Kids, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff and Angst, Living Together, M/M, Phil and Clint do not have kids, Phil is not a SHIELD agent, Pillow Talk, Relationship Problems, SHIELD Husbands, but are the best uncles in the world, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The years go by and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Month of Sundays

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [May - December](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131775) by [shadowen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen). 



> Sequel to [May-December.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1131775)
> 
> Thanks to Laurenthian for the beta.

**Sunday, July 7, 2002**

The years go by and everything changes.

Clint signs on with SHIELD, and he and Dad have a screaming fight that lasts for a month after they move to New York. Then September comes, the towers fall, the skyline is changed, and Dad calls in a panic to make sure they’re alright. Barney’s call comes five seconds later, asking the same thing. Clint’s training schedule is accelerated, and Phil spends the next few weeks volunteering with rescue and support crews. He should be looking for a job.

They spend their first year in a shoebox in the Bronx, living out of boxes because there isn’t room for all their stuff. For Phil’s birthday, they buy a bed to replace the futon of dubious construction they’ve been sleeping on.

“Forget work. I want to stay right here and sleep forever,” Phil murmurs, letting his head sink into the soft mattress. The king-sized bed takes up a quarter of the apartment, but he doesn’t care because it’s plush and comfortable and _theirs_. It’s the first thing they’ve bought together, and he would love it for that alone.

“No way,” Clint says. “ If you quit working, we’ll have to sell this thing to pay rent.”

They’re lying side-by-side on the bare bed, staring up at the featureless ceiling, resting after the effort of hauling and setting it up. Phil’s looking forward to making love on the new, unspoiled mattress, but they have time for a few minutes of quiet repose.

“No, I’ve decided to take up a life of leisure,” Phil teases, not that his job at the legal clinic adds much to their income. “You deal with all that earning-a-living nonsense.”

Clint rolls toward him, poking him in the side. “Yeah? You gonna be my house husband?”

“Well, I’d have to be your husband for that.” The words are out of Phil’s mouth before he even thinks to reconsider them, and they are followed by a beat of tense silence.

“That might be something to talk about, at some point,” Clint says lightly. “Not, y’know, now. But someday.”

“Someday,” Phil agrees. Clint gives him a sweet smile and leans in for a kiss.

_Someday_ takes root in Phil’s stomach as a bright, warm feeling that blossoms slowly as the years pass. In the end, _someday_ is almost a decade later, but it’s worth the wait.

 

**Sunday, August 31, 2003**

Clint keeps a list of things that he owes to Phil. It’s not organized or conscious. Things like ‘ten bucks for library fine’ get mixed in with ‘saved me from that fight in second grade’ and 'the rest of my life'. He doesn’t do it on purpose, but it’s always in the back of his head, like a security blanket to wrap around his darker thoughts and remind him of all the ways that Phil has loved him.

Near the top of the list is sex. 

Abstractly, he knows that if he hadn’t gotten together with Phil at all, he probably would have found someone eventually, and sex with them would have been just as good. But there never has been and never will be anyone else, and Clint’s not always sure that’s a good thing.

“Does it bother you?” he asks one night. They’re sprawled out on the bed, trying to cool down in the heat of the New York summer and the afterglow of what Clint thinks was some pretty inventive intimacy. “That I’m... that I never...”

“The only things about you that bother me are your work schedule and your bizarre fascination with westerns,” Phil says. One of Clint’s hearing aids got knocked out in the excitement, so Phil’s voice is faint and tinny, but Clint knows that he is both teasing and absolutely serious.

He rolls over so that he can see the silhouette of Phil’s face in the dark. “It’s just that you’ve got this experience and stuff with, y’know, sex things, and I don’t really know what I’m doing half the time. I mean, I’m learning, but it seems like there’s still a lot I don’t know. And it’s amazing for me, but I figure it’d probably be better for you if you didn’t have to teach me everything, a-”

Phil cuts him off with a gesture and shifts so that he’s facing Clint, brow furrowed. “First of all, my sexual experience isn’t that extensive, despite whatever rumors lingered after I graduated. Second, if sex with you was any better, I’d have to learn some new words, because ‘spectacular’ is barely enough, already.”

“I think you might be a little biased,” Clint points out, and he’s glad Phil can’t see how red he’s turning.

“Of course I’m biased!” Phil scoffs. “I’m completely biased. I favor you in every regard over every human being on the planet. Part of the reason making love to you is so spectacular is _because_ I’m biased.”

Clint has to think about that one for a moment. “Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense.”

"It's always made sense to me." Phil pauses, and Clint can see him chewing at the inside of his cheek. "Does it... Are you disappointed that you haven't been able to... that you haven't had..." 

"What? Like, that I never hooked up with anybody else?" Clint asks. Phil nods slowly, and Clint laughs. "Yeah, I'm completely devastated I never got to experience the awkward fumbling of teenage virginity. Such a tragedy.”

“You were deprived of an important formative experience,” Phil murmurs, smiling that quiet smile that makes Clint’s stomach feel warm and heavy. He presses a kiss to Clint’s bare shoulder. “I, for one, intend to help make up for everything you missed.”

“Mmm. I like the sound of that.” Clint rolls them on the bed, sitting up to straddle Phil’s hips. The light from the window casts sharp shadows across them that flicker with the sudden rise of Phil’s chest when Clint rocks against him. “Maybe I should get a cheerleader uniform, so it can be really authentic.”

“I never had much interest in cheerleaders,” Phil says, his voice so low that Clint feels the vibrations more than he hears the words. “You in a pleated skirt, though...”

Clint laughs and leans down for a deep kiss. “I’ll pick one up tomorrow,” he promises.

It’s a promise that he keeps.

 

**Sunday, January 1, 2006**

Phil doesn't sleep well when Clint's away. It's not that he can't sleep, just that he keeps waking up and reaching out to find an empty bed. This time when he wakes up, he knows that something is different. The air in the apartment is somehow displaced, and he knows that Clint is home.

There are no lights on, and it takes him a moment to make out Clint's shape in the dark, sitting motionless on the couch.

"Clint?"

Clint jumps, but he doesn't turn. "Hey. Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Phil says, coming around the couch to sit beside him. Even in shadow, he can see that Clint's face is drawn and tired. "What's wrong?"

Clint shakes his head. "Nothing. Long day. It's fine." He offers up a wan smile that Phil doesn't believe for a second. "You should go back to bed. I'll be there in a minute."

"No, I think I'll stay up for a bit," Phil replies mildly. Clint glances at him, and Phil moves closer, pressing their shoulders together. "I know you can't tell me everything, but please don't lie to me, not about this. Not about you."

Clint’s silence is long and breathless, hanging on the edge of something Phil can’t possibly anticipate, until Clint finally says quietly, “I killed someone, today.”

Phil answers with a silence of his own. He’s not shocked; he can’t be. The twist in his stomach isn’t from surprise, but from sympathetic sickness at the way Clint’s jaw tightens like he’s trying not to throw up.

“It wasn’t the plan,” Clint goes on, voice soft and steady. “Things went south. There was an agent on the ground. She was in danger. They told me to take the shot, and I did, no hesitation. It didn’t really even hit me until I was on my way home.”

It seems like Phil should be prepared for this, have something to say that will ease the weight bearing down on Clint’s shoulders. He doesn’t. All he can do is sit closer and offer his own shoulders to share it.

“I feel like I should regret it, but I don’t.” There’s something else in Clint’s tone now, something brittle and hard. “I made the right call. The target was... It was the right call.”

“I can’t imagine that makes it easier,” Phil says gently.

Clint pauses, and that empty space carries just as much meaning as the shake of his head that follows. “No. It doesn’t.”

Phil owes Clint a lot. He knows what kind of road he was on before a frightened five-year-old gave him a reason to change his trajectory, and he knows that he never would have made it through high school or law school or Pop’s death or a hundred other smaller calamities without Clint next to him. Phil’s entire life is a gift from Clint, and all he’s ever had to offer in return is a home and his whole heart.

“I’m so sorry.” He sets his hand gently on the back of Clint’s neck, hoping that all the love his voice can’t carry will somehow reach Clint through his skin. “Come to bed,” he says. “Even if you can’t sleep, just come rest for a while. Please.”

There’s nothing he can do about the death on Clint’s conscience or the fact that it almost certainly won’t be the last, that they will likely relive variations on this moment for the rest of their lives, but he can take care of Clint now, in the present moment, and make sure that, if there is ever a weight to break Clint’s shoulders, it isn’t this.

Clint sighs, his whole body bowed with exhaustion. “I don’t wanna keep you up.”

“Yes. I’m sure I’ll sleep wonderfully knowing that you’re sitting out here alone,” Phil replies dryly. Clint doesn’t answer, and Phil says, “If you don’t come lie down, I’m going to get my pillow and sleep out here. Either way, I’m staying with you.”

Clint will need time on his own to process and figure out how much this will change him, but not now. Now, Phil is going to wrap him up in all the peace and comfort that a warm bed can provide so that when he is finally alone, he’ll have a kind of armor to protect him.

“Bed does sound pretty good,” Clint admits, standing slowly as Phil coaxes him off of the couch. “Been camped out on a rooftop for a week.”

“I hope you could at least see the stars,” Phil says, because he’d rather picture a sky bright with constellations than imagine Clint hunkered down on concrete in the lonely darkness.

“A few. Mostly it was too bright.” Clint lets himself be led into the bedroom and kicks off his boots with a grunt of relief. He’s still wearing tac pants and a t-shirt that is spotted with dust from whatever unknown place his orders took him. He must have come straight home the second he was released, no nap or shower or change of clothes, just a straight line from SHIELD to Phil.

He doesn’t say anything else, and Phil lets him keep his silence. As they settle into bed, Phil pulls them close together and takes Clint’s hand, spelling out L-O-V-E-Y-O-U into his palm. Holding Phil’s hand in turn, Clint presses a kiss to his palm, his wrist, the back of his fingers, and finally his mouth, then lies down to rest his head over Phil’s heart, like he’s setting tether points to keep himself anchored here.

The sun is just starting to creep through the cracks in the skyline when Clint’s exhaustion overwhelms him, and he drops into a deep sleep. Phil slips away long enough to call into work and convince his boss that he has a terribly contagious illness and will be working from home. Clint barely twitches when Phil climbs back into bed, just curls in close against Phil’s side with a murmur.

Phil doesn’t have much to offer, not in the face of what the world has taken from Clint, but he can offer this. For whatever it’s worth, he can give Clint a home.

 

**Sunday, January 8, 2006**

Clint wants kids. Not enough to say anything, but there's this... this feeling, this sadness that he can't explain. It starts before Barney and Laura have their first kid, but baby Katie's angelic blue eyes and wicked smile give a shape to this small blank space inside him. Kid number two makes it worse.

As an infant, Katie was notorious for pitching tiny little fits if anyone but Clint held her for more than a minute, and at six years-old, she still gravitates immediately toward him, taking up as much of his attention as she can. It can be a little much, but Clint has learned that he will suffer endless irritation and indignity if it means making Katie happy.

Cassie is a month old by the time they get a chance to visit. Barney, who is juggling this recent bout of fatherhood alongside classes at Quantico, greets them with a worn-out grin. From another room, there is the broken, pitiful wail of a very unhappy baby.

“She’s got colic,” he explains, yawning. “And she’s got this, I dunno, sensitivity thing, so they put her on this special formula. Except it makes her constipated, so she’s cranky all the time.”

Clint and Phil share a glance. “Do you wanna go take a nap or something?” Clint suggests, but Barney waves him off.

“Naw. Gotta take whatever time I can get with my little brother.” He punches Clint playfully in the arm, and Clint swats at his head, grinning. “Big brother, too, I guess,” he adds with a punch for Phil.

“Yes, well, we all know Clint’s the favorite,” Phil says. 

Clint rolls his eyes, but Barney nods in agreement. “Favorite kid, favorite brother, favorite uncle...”

On cue, Katie comes barrelling into the living room and crashes into Clint’s arms with a shriek of delight. "Yay! Yay! Yay! Play with me! Play with me!"

"Geez, kid. Give 'em a minute to sit down." Barney has taken up what Clint has come to think of as Dad Position on the couch, lounging so that he's ready to doze off or spring into action at a moment's notice. Katie climbs into his lap and plants a kiss on his cheek before turning to launch herself at Phil, who catches her with an _oomph_ of surprise.

"It's nice to see you, too, Katherine," he says dryly. 

"Present?" Katie replies, her blue eyes expectant.

Clint might be the favorite uncle, but Phil is the Dispenser of Gifts, which raises him considerably in Katie's estimation.

Phil shakes his head solemnly. "No present."

Katie's eyes go round. "No?"

"Not this time. Gremlins stole it," he tells her, and she scowls.

"What's a gremmin?"

"It's a little monster that likes to steal things and make trouble." Phil holds up a hand to Katie's height. "They're about this big, with sharp teeth and long claws."

Clint can already see all the ways this is going to backfire, but Phil's committed to the bit, so Clint just shares a look with Barney and keeps his mouth shut.

Katie stomps her foot angrily. "Mean gremmin!"

"Very mean," Phil agrees. "Especially to little girls."

"Gremmin take my present?" Katie asks. At Phil's nod, her face scrunches up, and her lower lip starts to tremble. "Bad! Bad gremmin! Is my present. I w-want... want my p-present. Is n-not f-air!"

Clint watches Phil realize that he’s made a terrible mistake, but the tears are already welling up in Katie’s eyes, her voice stumbling on tiny sobs. “No, no, no! Sweetheart, don’t cry! It’s okay. Your present is right here. Look!” Phil says, scrambling to get the gift out of their bag and hold it up for Katie.

She eyes it suspiciously, still sniffling miserably. “B-but you said th-the gremmin took it!”

Phil stares like a rabbit in oncoming traffic. “I, uh, well...”

“We caught the gremlin,” Clint jumps in. “Your uncle Phil caught it in a trap and made it give your present back.”

Katie blinks up at Phil in teary-eyed awe. “Really?”

Phil is still recovering from having made a little girl cry, so Clint assures her, “Really really. He told that mean old gremlin it was a present for the smartest, sweetest, prettiest princess in the whole world, and the gremlin felt so bad that it dropped the present and ran away.”

It might be a little unfair that Clint is the favorite uncle _and_ the best storyteller, but the way Kate lights up every time he calls her _princess_ makes it hard to care.

“You catch the bad gremmin?” Katie asks Phil, who casts a sideways glance at Clint.

“Apparently.”

The gift is a knitted cap with big floppy ears and a matching fluffy scarf. Everything is sparkly and purple, because sparkly and purple are Katie’s two favorite things. Her other favorite things are Clint and, apparently, her new puppy, and she hauls him down to the basement to introduce him to a ball of fur and excitement named Arrow.

Barney didn’t think through the logistics of having a puppy, an infant, and a six-year-old living in the same house, but at least he had the good sense to dog-proof the basement before banishing the poor thing to the abyss. Not that Arrow seems to mind, as long as he has something to chew on and Katie to chase him around. Clint finds himself wondering if Phil will let him get a dog, since kids are out of the question. Probably not.

By the time Laura comes down to check on them, Clint has a hole in his shirt, slobber in his hair, and Katie clinging to his back, and he couldn’t be happier.

“I see you’ve met the _other_ new addition to the family," Laura drawls. There are dark circles under her eyes, familiar badges to any parent, but her smile is bright and soft. Arrow gives a loud bark and goes running toward her, smacking Clint with a mouthful of tail as he turns.

“Mommy! Mommy! Hat!” Katie squeals, scrabbling off of Clint’s back and pointing to her new present. It’s already bearing the marks of a puppy owner, but a few pulled strands can’t dampen Katie’s enthusiasm.

“Ooh, it’s so pretty, honey,” Laura says. “Did you say thank you?” Katie nods emphatically, and Laura’s smile widens. “Do you want to introduce Uncle Clint to your new baby sister?”

“Yeah!” A moment later, Clint finds himself once again being pulled by the hand as Katie drags him up the stairs and back into the living room, where Clint’s breath catches hard in his throat.

Cassie is asleep in Phil’s arms, curled up with her tiny head cradled in the crook of his arm. She’s wrapped in a blue and red blanket, one fragile fist sticking up over the top, and Phil is watching her sleep with an expression of peaceful contentment.

“Barney go take a nap?” Laura asks quietly, and Phil nods, his eyes still fixed on Cassie. Katie creeps toward them, grinning as she touches the top of her sister’s soft, pink ear with more gentleness than most six-year-olds can manage.

“You should get some rest, too,” Clint tells Laura. “We can watch the girls for a while.”

Laura rewards him with a kiss on the cheek. “World’s best brother-in-law.”

“Don’t let the others hear you say that,” Clint says, and she pokes his arm playfully.

“Wake us up if there’s any problems.”

Laura has three sisters, all of them happily married to men whose jobs don’t involve violence. Barney was at the police academy when he met Laura and walking his first beat when he met Laura’s parents; he’s not the favored son-in-law, but Clint couldn’t ask for a better almost-sister than Laura.

He sinks onto the couch beside Phil, who still hasn’t looked up from Cassie, and Katie wriggles in between them. “You have babies, Uncle Phil?” she asks, and Phil laughs softly.

“No, sweetheart, Uncle Clint and I don’t have any babies,” he says. Clint is surprised by the way his heart clenches.

Katie frowns. “How come?”

“Well, we can’t have babies the way your mom does, and it would be hard for us to adopt.” There’s no regret in his voice, just a simple summary of the way things are. “Besides, babies need a lot of attention, and we’re both really busy all the time. That wouldn’t be fair to the baby, would it?”

Katie shakes her head, looking thoughtful. “Be less busy?” she suggests, and Phil turns to her, smiling.

“I wish we could be, Katie-Kate.”

Clint says nothing.

It’s not until they’re driving home the next day that he works up the nerve to ask, “Have you ever thought about kids?”

“As in having them?” Phil frowns. “God, no. Children are loud, needy, and fragile. With our lives, we’d probably do more harm than good.”

Clint thinks that’s bullshit. He knows the kind of harm that parents can do, and he knows that neither of them is capable of that. Or Phil isn’t, at least. Who knows what paternal tendencies might be hidden in Clint’s genes?

Phil looks over like he suddenly knows exactly what’s on Clint’s mind. “Oh. Oh no, Clint, I didn’t m-”

“No, you’re right,” Clint says. “There’s no way we could take care of a kid.”

He spends the rest of the ride home trying to convince himself that it’s true.

 

**Sunday, February 15, 2009**

In the ten thousand days they have been a part of each other lives, barely a handful have gone by without a word between them. A call, a note, a text, a third-party Clint-said-to-tell-you or a Phil-says-hello, or a few lines of chat in the corner of Phil’s computer screen; there’s always been something, some point of connection across whatever distance separates them. Even when Clint is at work and doesn’t pick up, Phil can call as much as he wants, and Clint had once confessed that he liked checking his phone at the end of a busy day to find half a dozen messages from Phil, no matter how mundane or unimportant they are. 

As the missions get longer, the return calls become fewer and further between.

Now, Clint’s been away on assignment for two months. He calls every day for the first three weeks, sometimes to talk for hours and sometimes just to say, “Hi. I love you. Gotta go,” in a hurried rush of breath, and he texts every morning of the fourth week to check in. 

Week five begins with a single text, followed by six days of nothing, and Phil nearly drives himself to distraction checking his phone every few minutes, waiting for a word that never comes.

The silence continues through weeks six and seven, and he starts smoking again just to keep from calling or texting or anything to try and reach out across the dead air. In the middle of a mission, a poorly timed phone call could be the difference between Clint coming home whole or in a box, and Phil will never be worried or lonely enough to take that risk.

It’s a toss up as to which is killing him the worst. The worry keeps him up at night and makes every part of him ache with tension, but the loneliness is crushing. He makes excuses to stay at the office longer than he needs to, keeping company with the attractive young paralegal on loan to help with his current case. In between too much work and not enough sleep is a lot of take-out dinners and a few more drinks than usual. The alcohol doesn’t help him sleep, but it dulls the tension enough that he can just feel sorry for himself for a while.

As week eight draws to a close, Phil keeps checking his phone to see the same, solitary text that Clint sent on Wednesday: _In DC. Don’t know when I’ll be home. Sorry. Love you._

Valentine’s Day has faded into the day after, and the blast of cold air as Phil leaves the bar only makes his longing for a warm bed even stronger. The bed at home will be cold and empty, and he nearly throws up thinking about tomorrow morning.

It was only supposed to be dinner with a coworker, then it was only drinks, then it was only talking, then it was only ten thousand days of loyalty that let Phil walk away.

He can’t remember the last time he and Clint went out or did anything even remotely romantic. They used to stay up all night talking, playing board games, or just basking in each other’s presence, but it feels like years since they even spent an entire day together. Phil wracks his brain for the last time they made love, and the best he can come up with is sometime before Thanksgiving.

If there is any justice in the world, Phil thinks, he’ll get food poisoning and spend the next forty-eight hours in abject misery. He hopes that Clint is fast asleep in DC, sprawled out in comfort and having that recurring dream where he’s Robin Hood with a jetpack. 

When he comes through the front door, the first thing Phil notices is the lamp turned on in the living room. The second thing he notices is Clint snoring on the couch, one stockinged foot hanging over the end like a dingy white flag.

Phil freezes, but Clint, hearing aids still on and attuned to any change in his space, is already sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a bleary grin. “Hey.” His voice is gravelly and perfect and just a little too loud. “Sorry. I wanted to surprise you, but I guess I was tired.”

The TV is playing a black and white western on mute, stark subtitles scrolling across the bottom, and Clint is wearing one of Phil’s sweatshirts, too small and pulling tight across his shoulders. The whole scene is too familiar and too surreal.

“I know I should have called, but I didn’t think you’d be out so late,” Clint says, frowning. “Are you okay?”

It takes Phil a moment to realize that was a question. He’s too busy watching the way Clint’s lips move and trying to decide if he’s hallucinating. “What? Oh. Fine. I’m fine.”

Clint moves toward him, then stops, folding his arms. “Are you mad?” he asks, his wide eyes luminous in the dim light. “It was killing me not to call. I didn’t even have my phone to listen to your old voicemails. I just missed you so much, and I don’t want you to think I forgot or anything.”

“I know you didn’t,” Phil says quietly. He can still smell alcohol and unfamiliar cologne on his clothes.

“So you’re not...? I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you were, but could you maybe be mad at me tomorrow and just be glad to see me for right now?” Clint’s arms tighten around himself, and the fact that he’s _there_ hit’s Phil all at once.

He’s real and whole and close enough that a few short steps would put him in Phil’s arms, and when Phil opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “I kissed someone else.”

Clint stares at him, blank faced and silent for too long. Finally, he just says, "Oh."

"He kissed me, and that was all. There wasn't anything else. It was just a misunderstanding. We've been working together, and he's leaving soon, so we went to dinner and drinks and..." Phil is babbling, and Clint is still staring blankly. "I didn't mean for it to happen, and it shouldn't have. I was... You've been gone so long, and I didn't..."

"Wait, did this just happen?" Clint asks suddenly. "Like, you got drunk, your co-worker ambushed you, and you came home?" Phil nods miserably. "Jesus. No wonder you look like crap." 

Now it's Phil's turn to stare. He didn’t have time to prepare himself for the possible range of Clint’s reactions, but he would have expected at least a flash of anger or a flicker of shock. Sympathy is the last thing he anticipated, and it’s certainly not what he deserves.

“This guy. Did he hurt you? Did he keep pushing after you said no?” Clint moves closer, his expression shifting into a dark scowl.

Phil shakes his head. Nothing about this makes sense, and he’s too tired to sort it out. “No, it wasn’t like that. He apologized and called me a cab.”

“You said he’s leaving soon. So he won’t be around to cause a problem?” Clint presses, and the shame in the back of Phil’s throat turns bitter.

“Exactly what kind of problem do you think he would cause?” Phil snaps. “You’re obviously confident in my devotion, since you trust me enough to disappear for two months.”

Clint flinches, and Phil immediately regrets every word. “I’m sorry,” Clint says, so quietly that Phil can barely hear him. He can’t possibly hear himself. “It wasn’t supposed to be so long, but things got so fucked up, there was no way to get in touch. I couldn’t even have somebody call you to tell you I was okay. I know you’d never fuck around. I do. I just wanna know if I have to worry about this guy harassing you or coming after me or something.”

Of course. Of course Clint, whose life revolves around keeping people safe, would default to questions about Phil’s security and well-being. It isn’t sympathy; it’s practicality, and Phil rubs a hand over his face with a sigh. “I am such an idiot."

"Well, you'd have to be pretty dumb to date a secret agent," Clint points out. It would be a joke if he was smiling, but he's not.

"Does that make me Miss Moneypenny?" Phil grumbles, and Clint snorts.

"My team calls you Mister Peel," he says. "Y'know, 'cause of..."

"The mysterious husband that everyone knows about but no one's ever met. Yes, I get it."

It takes Phil a moment to understand why the awkward silence that follows is so unnerving. Then he realizes it’s because they’ve never _had_ an awkward silence. Their silent moments have always been peaceful or full of feeling, never strained or uncertain. They’ve never not been on the same page before, and Phil folds his arms to keep himself from shaking with sudden dread.

Finally, Clint clears his throat. “So, this guy...?”

“Not a problem,” Phil answers quickly. “I’ll see him when the case goes to court, but there won’t be any drama.”

“Will you tell me if there is?” Clint asks, strangely plaintive. “If anything happens or if you... if you think something might happen. Will you tell me? Please?”

“Of course.” Phil’s never kept a secret from Clint in his life. He’s not sure he could, even if he wanted to. “But I hope you know that you really can trust me. You could be gone for a year, and there’d still never be anyone else.”

It’s the truth. Despite the loneliness and whatever wishes he might entertain, Phil knows in his bones that he will never want anyone but Clint.

“I know. I know that, I just...” Clint sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I guess I just feel out of sync, y'know?"

Phil lets out a breath he's been holding for months. "Oh my god, I know exactly what you mean. Even before you left, things were..."

"It was weird,right? Like we weren't on the same page," Clint says. They keep inching closer together, and Phil can see the misery on Clint's face. He seems older than he was two months ago. "We're never not on the same page."

Phil can't help but smile. "At least we're still in the same book."

Clint's answering smile is like the first warm day at the end of a long winter. “Oh hey! That reminds me.” Before Phil can reply, Clint has darted away and vanished into the bedroom. When he reappears, he’s carrying a small gift, wrapped in newspaper and tied with a red ribbon. “I was gonna give it to you tomorrow, hopefully after a night of homecoming sex, but I guess it’s technically tomorrow now.”

“I might have to take a raincheck on your homecoming sex, anyway.” At Clint’s raised eyebrow, Phil sighs. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, as it were. I haven’t slept in a month.”

“Yeah, that nap was the most downtime I’ve had for a while.” Clint gives Phil a wry smile, still turning the package over in his hands. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

“I think this is called being in love,” Phil replies dryly. “Or codependence.”

“Six of one. Anyway, here,” Clint says, offering his gift. 

The shape looks like a hardcover, but it’s much too light to be a book. Phil slides off the ribbon and carefully peels the paper away to reveal a plastic VHS case, its corners cracked and pitted with age, featuring an old, cell-shaded illustration of rabbits on the cover. 

Phil laughs. “Where the hell did you find this?”

“I’d tell you, but that would ruin the mystery.” Clint is beaming, but there’s a twitch of anxiety in the way he’s bouncing on his toes. “Open it. There’s stuff inside.”

Instead of a VHS, the case contains a DVD of the film with a much more muted cover. There’s a small envelope on top of the DVD, but Phil has to pause before he goes any further. “I love you,” he says, and Clint’s whole body softens like he’s been fighting to keep himself small and contained until Phil reminds him that he doesn’t have to.

“Love you, too,” he says, and Phil’s universe tilts back into place.

The envelope isn’t a card or a note. It’s a memo from SHIELD HR, every detail redacted except the content. Phil reads it twice, lingering on the brief message at the end.

_Re: Query: New spousal recognition policy. Agent Barton - Yes, your case definitely qualifies. Under the new policy, you and your partner are eligible for registration and recategorization as legal spouses, with a limited retroactive adjustment in benefits, though you will need to apply before the end of the benefits year. If you’d like further counseling or wish to schedule a ceremony, contact_ [redacted] _. Congratulations!_

Phil looks from the paper to Clint, speechless.

“So, uh, that happened,” Clint says. “I mean, it’s kinda like going to Canada to get married. It doesn’t really change anything, but if we want to...” He reaches into the open case, still in Phil’s hand, and picks up the DVD. Underneath it are two gold rings, one inscribe with an arrow and the other with a set of scales. “If _you_ want to.”

_Want_ isn’t a big enough word for this feeling. _Yes_ doesn’t begin to communicate the certainty and conviction of Phil’s answer. _Of course_ seems flimsy beside the reminder that their life together is built on the cracked spine of a battered paperback. The only other words Phil has are _The primroses were over_ , so he settles for a kiss that articulates everything language can’t.

He still has the VHS case in one hand and the HR memo in the other, but Clint’s hands are free to slide around Phil’s waist and pull him close, keeping them pressed together even after the kiss is over. 

With a deep breath that pushes his heartbeat flush against Phil’s, Clint asks, “You’re sure?”

Phil just kisses him again and says, “Shut up and take me to bed.”

Everything they still have to say can wait. For now, this is what they need.

 

 

**Sunday, May 6, 2012**

Clint doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but it’s been days and he just saved the world and maybe he can just lie back for a minute and...

There is a light touch on his hand, and he starts awake, blinking until the face in front of him resolves into black-rimmed glasses and a relieved smile.

“Oh my god.” Clint dives forward as Phil drops to sit on the hospital bed, and their arms around each other are tight enough to bruise. “Oh my god, you’re here. You’re okay. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Phil is talking, too, and Clint doesn’t need to hear him to know that it’s the same desperate babbling, the same flood of love and relief. They pull away, but Clint doesn’t want to give up the grounding touch, the warmth and solidity of Phil under his hands. He moves in as close as he can, wrapping himself in the nearness. He knows the others are staring, but he doesn’t care.

Lifting one hand, he crooks a finger over his ear and shakes his head, and Phil nods, angling so that his face is directly toward Clint.

Phil starts to say something, pauses, and signs it instead. _Are you hurt? They wouldn’t tell me anything._

_I’ll be fine,_ Clint signs back. _I just need to sleep for a week._

He knows someone else is talking from the way Phil’s head turns. From the way Phil tenses up, Clint’s guessing it’s probably Stark. He guesses right.

Stark, of course, is moving too much for Clint to track what he’s saying, but Phil’s jaw tightens in a way that Clint definitely doesn’t like. He squeezes Phil’s shoulder and turns his other palm up as he shrugs.

Phil throws a last look of disgust at Stark, then signs, _He asks if I’m your accountant._ Clint laughs, and Phil punches him in the arm. _He also asks what you did to your ears._

With Rogers and Thor trailing behind him, Stark has made his way to Clint’s bed by now, still talking and moving faster than Clint can follow. Natasha just stands to the side, arms folded, like she’s interested to see how this goes down. Clint thinks she’s probably making bets with herself about who’s going to throw the first punch.

Stark says something that makes Phil and Natasha both roll their eyes, and Clint squeezes Phil’s shoulder again.

_He wants to know if all SHIELD agents learn Sign or just the really scary ones,_ Phil signs, and now Clint’s rolling his eyes.

“Hey, asshole,” he says, measuring his breath to get volume without shouting. Stark stops mid-sentence and blinks at him. “Look at me when you talk, so I don’t have to get this shit second-hand.” Clint grins and turns to Phil. “Hah. Second _hand_.” Phil lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Wow, so you’re, like, actually, legitimately deaf, huh?” Stark says, and he at least keeps his face toward Clint.

“As opposed to what? Pretend deaf?”

This time, Rogers is the one rolling his eyes as he shoulders past Stark and holds out a hand to Phil. Even though he’s talking to Phil, he angles himself so that Clint can pick up the words. “Hi. Captain Steve Rogers. I take it you’re a friend of Barton’s?”

Phil gapes, actually honest-to-god _gapes_ , his mouth opening and closing like a lost fish. Clint wants to laugh, but he’s not about to embarrass Phil in front of his hero. Well, he _is_ about to embarrass Phil in front of his hero, but in a good way.

“Cap, this is Phil Delaware. My husband,” Clint says and punctuates it by giving Phil a big, wet kiss on the cheek.

“Wow,” Stark says. “Wow. I would not have called that.”

Rogers just grins and tells Phil, “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Phil turns so violently red, he looks like he’s about to burst into flames. His flushed face gets murderous when Stark chooses that moment to ask Clint, “So is this a sugar daddy thing or do you have some kind of middle-management kink?”

Violence is miraculously averted as Thor steps in and takes Phil’s hand, not for a handshake, but to lift it gently like Phil is a nobleman at court. Clint catches enough words to know what he’s saying. “I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, bearer of Mjolnir, and defender of the nine realms. If I may speak plainly, I must say that good Barton’s aim must be true indeed if he has found a mark in the heart of one so fair. It is a great honor to make your acquaintance.”

As if that’s not enough, Thor bends his head to plant a light kiss on the back of Phil’s hand. Phil, stunned, turns to Clint and asks, “Is the Norse god of thunder flirting with me? Is that what’s happening here?”

Clint nods. “I think that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Is it not seemly to praise the hearthkeeper of a fellow warrior?” Thor asks. At least, Clint thinks that’s what he asks.

Phil is giving a reply that Clint can’t quite track, but he can tell that Phil is fumbling a little. “No, man, it’s fine,” Clint tells Thor. “Just kinda... unexpected, under the circumstances.”

Thor smiles and nods like he understands, even if it’s clear he doesn’t. Phil gives Clint a bright smile of his own and signs, _I like your new friends._

Clint laughs, and Stark immediately demands to know what’s so funny. With an expression of heavily-tried patience, Rogers ushers him toward the door, saying something about being useful. He claps Clint firmly on the shoulder as they go, his smile warm and sad.

Natasha gives Clint a kiss on the cheek and leaves Phil with a smile as she trails after them. There will be questions, but he trusts her to deal with whatever comes up. It seems like no one’s going to have a problem, at least.

Phil looks like he’s about to say something, then shakes his head, twining his fingers with Clint’s like he wants to make sure no one can pull them apart. Clint can hear everything he’s not saying, clear as a bell. _They told me you were captured. I was so scared. What happened? Can you tell me? I love you. What does this mean? Please don’t do that again. ___

__The only answer Clint has is a kiss pressed to Phil’s palm. He knows the world has changed in ways he can’t begin to fathom, and all he can do is hold on tight to the only constant he’s ever had._ _

__

__**Sunday, December 8, 2013** _ _

__If Phil thinks too much about the confluence of events that have led to him standing in front of a hotel mirror in a tuxedo that costs more than anything he’s ever owned, he starts to feel a little sick._ _

__“How do I look?” Clint asks, and Phil turns to see him standing across the room, wearing a tux of his own that beautifully highlights his... well, everything. He is _stunning_._ _

__“You look like a movie star.” Phil turns back to his own reflection. “I look like a hedge fund manager.”_ _

__“Maybe later you can help me build my investment portfolio,” Clint says. Phil’s not sure how he makes that sound dirty, but he does. Clint comes up behind him, wrapping an arm around his chest. “You look fantastic. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, out there.”_ _

___Out there_ , with the cameras and microphones and beautiful people. Out there, where questions and curiosity will draw back the thin veil of anonymity that has shielded Phil from the public aspects of Clint’s life as an Avenger. Phil’s not entirely sure that he’s ready for _out there_._ _

__“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he says. In the mirror, he sees Clint frown. “Not that I want to hide or want you to hide. I just wonder if... if there might be a better time. If we should wait until the team is more established, or if a charity fundraiser is really the right venue. Or if we should... if we should even do this at all.”_ _

__“Hey.” Clint pulls back and nudges Phil to turn around in his arms. “If you wanna keep it quiet, just say the word.”_ _

__“I want to do this. I do,” Phil assures him. “But I _don’t_ want you to become some kind of political chew toy. After the way things went when you said you were deaf, and now you tell them you’re queer, too? It’s going to be that ‘Diversity Avenger’ bullshit all over again.”_ _

__“Yeah, probably.”_ _

__“Clint.”_ _

__“What? If it makes those meatheads feel better to pretend like I’m some kind of token, then let ‘em.” Clint shrugs. “I’ve proven everything I need to, and I don’t give a flying fuck what anybody thinks unless they’ve got an ‘A’ on their uniform.”_ _

__This is the difference between Agent Barton and Hawkeye: this faith in himself, this certainty that he is finally where he belongs. It’s new, and Phil likes it. A lot._ _

__“I don’t have an ‘A’ on my uniform,” he points out, relaxing into Clint’s arms._ _

__“Maybe not, but you’re as much an Avenger as Pepper or Dr. Foster.” Clint adds, “Besides, I already know what you think.”_ _

__Phil doesn’t even try to hide his blush; Clint can probably feel the way his skin is heating up. “Oh?”_ _

__“You think...” Clint whispers in his ear, “that my ass looks great in these pants, and that you’re willing to play the Old and Tired card if it means we can can leave early and spend hours fucking in this ridiculous bed.”_ _

__“See, I was trying to mentally prepare myself, but now I’m going to be distracted.” Exactly how distracted he is at the moment is fairly evident. Clint just grins, and Phil sighs. “At least promise me you won’t pick any fights.”_ _

__“I promise,” Clint assures him. “Can’t speak for Rogers, though.”_ _

__Phil groans, and Clint gives him a firm kiss on the cheek._ _

__“Hey. We can do this,” Clint says. “Honestly, I’m kind of excited to show the whole world how great you are.”_ _

__The feeling in Phil’s chest reminds him why he’s here in the first place, why all the insanity of the past few years has been worth it. “Really?”_ _

__Clint smiles. “Really really.”_ _

__The world already knows how amazing Clint is, but Phil thinks that the most breathtaking parts of him are things that only Phil will ever understand. No one else will see the bruised little boy or the shy teenager or any part of the long road that led from unbroken child to unstoppable hero. No one will see the attentive husband who marks every anniversary or the ridiculous dork who sings Disney songs with his hearing aids out while he cleans._ _

__“I love you,” Phil says, and no one but Clint will ever know how much._ _

__Clint’s smile widens. “I know.”_ _

__There’s no good response but to kiss him, so that’s what Phil does._ _

__They’re only a few minutes late for the party, but they make those minutes count._ _


End file.
